Anchored Soul
by andyse7en
Summary: A Prequel for Boromir, before he leaves to find the solution for the riddle. Original character. Finished. Let me know what you think!
1. Anchored Soul 1

Boromir of Gondor ran a hand through his dark hair, a sigh escaping his lips. He shifted on his large bed, pulling thick warm furs up around him more closely. His brow furrowed in frustration. He could not sleep. He sat up, tossing back the furs, and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed he stood. The stone beneath his feet was cold, and gooseflesh raced over his naked skin. He scowled, and fumbled for his pants. Moving to his window, he leaned against the cool stone, fastening the leather straps of his pants. The moon had risen and was casting a pale light over the city of Gondor. Shivering once more, he turned back to find his shirt, which he pulled on impatiently. He left his chambers, padding silently through the hallways. He slowed as he approached his father's chambers, not wishing to be discovered, and also curious to know if his father had finished counsel with his younger brother, Faramir. There was no light visible beneath the thick oak door, no sound of lowered voices beyond. Boromir continued on his way, wrapping his arms around himself to contain more heat. Despite the warm air that descended upon Gondor in the early spring months, the evenings brought a chilled air.  
  
Boromir found himself high on a wall, looking over the plains that led away from the great city. He seated himself upon the wall, one leg folded idly beneath him. His gray eyes gazed over the land almost unseeingly, deep in thought. His dreams had been of no comfort of late. His brother and father professed their dreams openly, but he had never admitted to the gift that dwelt within him as well. His father, Denethor II, favored Boromir as not only the eldest, but also the pride of his two sons. Boromir regretted this, but could never seem to do anything to place himself in his father's ill graces. Faramir, on the other hand, had but to breathe too loudly, it seemed, to find the displeasure of his father. Faramir dreamt. Denethor had the gift as well, but never looked upon it as a gift: but simply as a useful tool in the rare occasions when his wisdom escaped him. Boromir, the favored, the 'dreamless', was wary of the gift. It came to him rarely, and he seldom understood the things it showed him. Now, however, the dreams were vivid, brilliant, and unmistakable. They- A noise from behind stirred Boromir from his thoughts. He turned, startled.  
  
"I beg pardon, Sire. I didn't realize there was someone here." A soft voice came from the dimness.  
  
Boromir peered into the darkness, unable to make the figure out.  
  
"Do not trouble yourself. Please, join me." He offered, standing, motioning with a hand. The figure approached slowly, almost cautiously.  
  
Head bowed, a woman stepped into the moonlight, dark cloak enveloping her frame. Locks of jet-black hair were loose around her shoulders, and fell down her back in curls. She offered a curtsy, and Boromir stepped forward in protest. "Don't. There is no need." He protested, taking her arm gently.  
  
She looked up, and Boromir's heart wrenched within him. Her face was fair, pale in the moonlight. Her dark eyes were steadily on his, without fear, with only the faintest hint of amusement.  
  
"I did not realize that Boromir, son of Denethor was wont to walk so late upon the walls." Her soft voice lingered in the air.  
  
"Boromir, son of Denethor isn't." He laughed, shifting uncomfortably. "Boromir, son of Denethor could not sleep." He sat back on the wall, gray eyes following the woman as she sat next to him. She inclined her head, a smile playing on her lips.  
  
"And what might be keeping you up, my Liege?" She reached out her hand and touched his gently. "What thoughts would keep you from your bed, and without your cloak?" Boromir looked down at her small hand over his and smiled.  
  
"One would be inclined to ask you, my Lady, what keeps you from your bed, so well prepared?" He looked back at her.  
  
"The changing seasons are lure enough for me, my Liege." She replied, removing her hand.  
  
"Address me not so. May I ask your name? For surely we have not met."  
  
"How can you be so sure?" she replied, dark eyes catching the moonlight.  
  
"I would surely have remembered a face as fair as thine." She looked away with a laugh.  
  
"Flattery is not your strong point, my Liege, but I will indulge you. My father is a guard of your house, and I am named Ariadne." She inclined her head towards him. "And am ever in my Lord's service." Boromir suppressed a laugh at her formality.  
  
"You seem one to speak about flattery, my Lady. Let us leave aside these terms of formality. They are trying and hollow." He took her hand and brought it to his lips, gray eyes fixed on hers. "Boromir, your humble servant." Ariadne laughed, but did not withdraw her hand.  
  
"Very well, Boromir. But you will certainly catch your death out here in this chill if you do not dress more appropriately for the weather." He looked away, her words bringing his thoughts back to mind for an instant.  
  
"I believe you are right, Ariadne. Care you to join me for a warm drink on this night?" He turned back to her, standing at his full height.  
  
"I was not raised to go off with strange men at ungodly hours, Boromir." She replied with a sly smile.  
  
"I am no stranger!" Boromir exclaimed, taking her in his arms. "And I will take not refusal." He touched her hair gently, briefly, before releasing her.  
  
"It seems that you have made my decision for me, then, Boromir. I accept your invitation." She took his offered arm and followed him back indoors… 


	2. Anchored Soul 2

Boromir led Ariadne into a cozy lounge, where a large fire blazed away merrily. Others were seated, deep in conversations, mugs and cups in hand. Ariadne looked around hesitantly; painfully aware she was the only female in the place. Boromir gave her a reassuring glance and led to a table near the fire. He immediately regretted bringing her here. Too many familiar faces, too much risk of being embarrassed, or scaring the woman off.  
  
"I wasn't thinking. Would you prefer if we went somewhere else?" He asked, his tone apologetic. The woman shook her head and sat, giving him a small smile.  
  
"I'm sure this will do. Now that we're this close to the fire, I don't think I could be dragged away." She sat, loosening her cloak from her shoulders. Boromir sat as well, casting a sideways glance at those nearest, who were watching them with all together too much curiosity. He cleared his throat, sinking back in his chair, the warmth of the fire spreading over his skin.  
  
"You said your father is a guard?" He asked lightly, watching the shadows flicker across Ariadne's face. She nodded, tying her hair back with a string of leather.  
  
"Yes. His name is Syrthik." She paused, watching a serving maid approach.  
  
"Your usual, Boromir?" The maid asked, practically draping herself around the man's broad shoulders. Boromir cursed silently, trying not to lose his famous temper.  
  
"No, thank you. I'll have a hot herbal drink." He replied, removing the serving maid from him gently but firmly.  
  
"And you?" The maid asked Ariadne, looking her over scornfully.  
  
"The same please." Ariadne replied sweetly, ignoring the woman's tone and look. Boromir covered an amused smile with his hand. "I see you're a regular." Ariadne said after the maid had gone, leaning slightly on the table, watching Boromir with laughing eyes.  
  
"Yes. A bit too regular it seems." Boromir replied, gray eyes averted, embarrassed. They lapsed into a comfortable silence when their drinks came, each leaning on the table, hands wrapped around the steaming mugs.  
  
"You are not what I expected you to be, Boromir of Gondor." Ariadne said after awhile, looking into his eyes.  
  
"Oh? And what were you expecting?" He asked, quirking a brow.  
  
"A spoiled, abrasive, obnoxious bore." She stated, draining the last of her drink. Boromir started back, an amused grin on his face.  
  
"All that? Really. If I am poor at flattery, Ariadne, I'd hate to think of what you are." He paused. "Boring I can understand. Spoiled as well, I suppose, but why abrasive? Obnoxious?" He questioned, watching Ariadne look away.  
  
"Well, I have never really met anyone of your rank before, Boromir." She motioned for silence as he protested. "No, let me finish. There IS a difference between the common people of Gondor and the ruling class. This you would know if you ever ventured from this place." She watched his face for a reaction. There was none. "And as people will do regardless, opinions are formed, rumors circulated… You are rumored to have a rotten temper, and I supposed with all your military prowess that you would be something of… an oaf." She smiled sunnily at this last statement, and Boromir broke into a hearty laugh.  
  
"I wonder what names you will be calling me next, Ariadne. But your honesty is most welcome." He watched her, almost curiously for a moment. "Perhaps I am an oaf. I know I have a rotten temper, and as for my military prowess…" He puffed up his chest and lifted his chin. "That is no rumor." He laughed, sitting back in his chair, finishing his drink as well. Ariadne fastened her cloak about her shoulders again, dark eyes averted.  
  
"It really is quite late, Boromir. I should be getting back lest my father sound the alarm." Boromir nodded.  
  
"Of course." He stood, tossing some coins down on the table. "Allow me to treat you?" He asked, resting a hand on her shoulder. She nodded, placing the hood of her cloak over her raven hair and slipping out in front of him. She paused outside the door.  
  
"Thank you, Boromir. For your company and the drinks were most pleasant." She half curtsied, her face glowing with warmth from the fire and the drink.  
  
"You are most welcome, Ariadne." He replied, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "I hope we shall meet again on a sleepless night." Placing a light kiss on her hand, he bowed, and watched until her form was concealed in the shadows. He crept back to his room and collapsed in bed, soon fast asleep, dreamless.  
  
He awoke to the sounds of someone moving about in his room and he sat up with a start. The servant, startled, dropped the empty basin that he was holding with a clatter. Boromir flopped back, rubbing at his eyes. "Time?" he asked gruffly, lingering in the warmth of his bed for just a moment longer.  
  
"It's… it's a little past noon, Sire." The servant stuttered fearfully, gathering the basin with trembling hands.  
  
"Noon?" Boromir exclaimed, glancing towards the window. Sunlight streamed in, warm and brilliant, indicating the time to be correct. "Prepare a bath for me at once. My father has not called for me?" The servant shook his head almost violently, rushing from the room to fulfill Boromir's wishes. 


	3. Anchored Soul 3

After bathing and dressing, Boromir made his way to the citadel to meet with his father. Faramir was not to be found, and the events of the previous night's councils were weighing heavily on Boromir's mind. The guards before the large doors of the citadel bowed low, and swung the doors open. Boromir strode into the grand hall, brow creasing in a frown to see Faramir by Denethor's side. Denethor looked up, a warm smile spreading across his face at the sight of his eldest and dearest son.  
  
"We were just beginning to wonder about you, Boromir. Faramir tells me you have had sleepless nights as of late?" Was that amusement in the Steward's eyes? Boromir approached the throne and bowed to one knee.  
  
"Yes, father. Sleep has been evasive as of late." His gray eyes glanced at his brother, who winked, fair face open, pleasant: A good sign that the meeting the previous night had gone well. He glanced back at his father, who leaned forward and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Well, my son, as you have been sleeping, we have been strategizing." The smallest amount of condescension was in Denethor's voice. Boromir smiled.  
  
"Strategizing? Without the Captain-General of the armies of Gondor?" Boromir joked, shooting his younger brother a look.  
  
"Gondor does not rest upon you alone, brother" Faramir replied, standing and stretching his back. Boromir stood as well, bringing his brother in for an amicable embrace.  
  
"That is what you think."  
  
"Now, now." Denethor sighed, glancing from youngest to eldest. "Matters in war are serious." The two became somber immediately, and turned to face their father. "And we have much to be concerned with in regards with the enemy gaining numbers and strength in the east." Denethor continued, face drawn and grave. "Both you and Faramir shall lead a company to reinforce the bridge at Osgiliath." The brothers regarded each other before turning back to their father.  
  
"Would not our leadership be more useful divided? Spread among the weak points that border upon Mordor?" Faramir asked, taking his seat once more beside Denethor's throne. "What is the urgency at Osgiliath?"  
  
"Rumors of fell riders, stories of a darkness that we have not yet witnessed have been spreading through the troops." Boromir paced, his voice low, thoughtful. He glanced at Denethor, who was watching him with approval. "If the bridge is taken…" Boromir trailed off, looking at Faramir. "Gondor would never be able to withstand attack." Denethor was beaming at his eldest son. Faramir looked away. "When would you like a company gathered, father?" Boromir asked.  
  
Denethor rubbed his face tiredly and sat back in his throne.  
  
"It will take a few days to muster soldiers… We are loosing many. The Easterlings and the Haradrim have joined with Mordor, and there is no telling when their siege upon us shall reach its full strength." Denethor looked old, tired. Boromir approached his father and knelt beside the throne.  
  
"Gondor shall be safe, father, as long as we are here to keep it thus." He looked to Faramir, who nodded. "We will gather the troops and head out as soon as we are ready." He got to his feet and bowed to his father before making for the door.  
  
"Boromir!" His brother's voice halted him in the corridor leading from the citadel. He waited as his brother ran to catch up with him. Faramir slung his arm around Boromir's shoulders, and they walked slowly out to the court of the fountain and the tree. "I meant to see you after father and I met, but I felt that you must have been tired, just returning from Cair Andros." He said softly. Boromir sighed, looking into the face of his brother that was much like his own.  
  
"I thought I was tired, Faramir. I don't know what has come over me as of late." They sat together, watching the sparkling fountain in the afternoon sun. Faramir's face was concerned.  
  
"You haven't been dreaming have you?" Was that a tone of accusation Boromir heard in his brother's voice?  
  
"No! Nothing discernable." He spoke in half-truths. He kept his dreams to himself, because on the most part they weren't discernable, a jumble of images that he often discarded at the moment of awakening. "I worry for our fair city."  
  
"As we all do. The rest of us, however, don't get to have drinks with random women as we worry." Faramir teased. "Who is she? And what is she doing with YOU?" Boromir laughed.  
  
"Her name is Ariadne, daughter of one of the guardsmen. We met that very night on the walls. I was sleepless and needed air, and there she was!" He ended, toying with a scrap of leather dangling from his wrist guards.  
  
"Would that we were all so lucky with the fairer sex." Faramir laughed.  
  
"I never said it was luck." Boromir smiled, smoothing back an errant lock of dark hair.  
  
"You must be famished. Join me for a meal before organizing the company?" Faramir stood, looking down at his elder brother. Boromir nodded and got to his feet as well.  
  
~  
  
Boromir started up from his bed; sweat dripping from his brow and into his eyes, trembling and fearful.  
  
"Help me…" He gasped into the empty, cold room. He placed his face in his hands and wept silently, attempting to shake the remaining tendrils of his dream from him. The sky outside was pale in the early morning sun, wrought with clouds that threatened oncoming rain. The troops would soon be ready for the journey to Osgiliath. Boromir arose and prepared for war, armoring himself with fingers that trembled. 


	4. Anchored Soul 4

The brothers rode together in silence towards the increasingly darkening sky that lay east of Gondor. Their company followed, silent save for the hoof beats of their horses and the steady clink of armor. A sense of dread fell over them all, knowing the danger that was before them, and the importance of their mission. Many of Gondor's bravest were already stationed elsewhere, but the sons of Denethor had raised many men who set their faith in Boromir the brave and Faramir, who could master horses and men. Boromir had said nothing of his dreams, which drew increasingly worse, their meaning becoming less and less dim to him as time moved on.  
  
It always began the same way. He felt the plodding of the horse beneath him, weary from many days travel. He saw a gathering of many concerned yet indiscernible faces. There was a great rise of desire within him, but of what he could not understand. A desire to hold, to control… dark eyes looking into his soul, urging, pleading, and then darkness. Screaming into a darkness that claimed him, consumed him entirely, leaving him feeling only despair and regret. A voice shook him from his reflection.  
  
"The darkness grows." Faramir said, peering ahead.  
  
"Evil is afoot." Boromir agreed, looking back at the men that followed. "Urge your horses on! The enemy must not prevail!"  
  
Osgiliath seethed with struggling forms, and at the very sight of the looming black forms many in the company trembled, fearing for their souls. Even Boromir's jaw tensed at the scene before him, and his heart ached that so many men would be lost.  
  
"For Gondor!" His brother's voice cried beside him, unsheathing his sword and raising it, rallying the men behind him. The cry was taken up, and Boromir's heart lifted a little in hope. He urged his horse forward into the fray, sword unsheathed and flashing, soon dulled with the dark blood of orcs. Bodies were falling in tremendous numbers, and it seemed that for every orc he slew, five more seemed to arise to replace it. Sweat was running from his brow, and blood flowed from several but slight wounds. His gray eyes kept tracking his brother, assuring his safety. He was dragged from his horse, which fell screaming beneath him, an orc axe buried deep in its neck. Boromir struggled against the grasping hands, severing a leg with his finely honed blade. He got to his feet, sword scything against rank bodies, grunting with effort. His eyes were drawn to the foot of the bridge, to movement there. He squinted, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes widened in understanding. He whirled, searching for his brother. He waded through fallen bodies and wriggling orcs to where his brother was fighting.  
  
"Faramir!" He caught his brother's arm and motioned to the foot of the bridge, where soldiers were gathering with torches and large barrels. His brother's eyes lit with understanding. He called out to the men nearby, motioning to the rails of the bridge.  
  
"Come on!" Faramir cried, hacking at one last orc before perching on the rail, and glancing about him. He leapt, and Boromir followed, his heart in his throat. The fall seemed to last forever, but not quite long enough when he plunged into the frigid waters. He struggled immediately for the surface, his armor and sword weighing him down frightfully. He broke the surface, gasping and retching, searching frantically for his brother. Above him the bridge lit up brilliantly, flames licking towards the sky. Flames raced the length of the bridge as the barrels of oil flew through the air and exploded. The screams of orcs and men mingled in a horrible uproar, and Boromir shuddered, turning away from the bridge and searching for his brother again. He was beginning to panic. The waters were cold, and debris and bodies were falling from the decaying bridge. Where was Faramir? He heard a harsh call, a desperate call, only realizing it was his own when fetid water filled his throat. He gagged, sinking a bit below the surface, floundering desperately. He broke the surface again, finding the form of his brother struggling in the waters nearby. He swam over to the form, grasping Faramir tightly to him, and making for the bank. Faramir seemed to regain himself and pushed away from his brother, grasping onto a floundering soldier and helping him to shore. Boromir did the same, collapsing onto the bank in exhaustion.  
  
"Faramir…" He gasped, blinking sightlessly up at the black sky. He felt a cold hand take his own.  
  
"I am here, brother. There will be more to find and help. Please get up." Boromir knew that what his brother said to be right, and he struggled into a sitting position, wounds beginning to sting from the filthy water. The screams of the black riders echoed overhead in the aftershock, joined only by the sound of licking flames and crumbling debris from the ruins of the bridge. Bodies washed up on the shore, the waters tainted red with blood. Boromir moaned, collapsing to one knee, knowing that few would have survived the final insurance that the divide between Mordor and Gondor would be kept wide. He and his brother searched among the dead for those who yet lived and found none. The man who Faramir had pulled from the waters lay unconscious in safety.  
  
"There cannot be only us three." Boromir said incredulously, covering his face from the putrid smoke that carried the smell of burning flesh of man and orc. Faramir fell to his knees in despair.  
  
"Evil is indeed on foot. Too many have been lost here today." He paused, hearing something in the still air. Boromir quirked his head and moved slowly, trying to find the source of the low moan. He bent, tossing rubbish off a prone form. Kneeling, he lifted the soldier's head gently.  
  
"Can you hear me?" He felt the soldier's pulse and looked back to Faramir. "He is alive. We must get back and tell father the bittersweet news." He stood, lifting the injured man to his feet. 


	5. Anchored Soul 5

The four weary soldiers were met halfway between Osgiliath and Gondor. The reinforcing troops provided them with horses, and sped on to Osgiliath. Boromir, Faramir, and the two soldiers reached the gates of Gondor within two days. They were rushed to the healing halls, where Denethor doted over Boromir as if he were a child once again. His wounds had been shallow, but the water had caused some infection. Faramir had been out in a few hours, only needing some bandaging. The other two soldiers were in much worse condition, having water in their lungs. Boromir spent many hours in counsel with his father, refusing to stay in bed. At night he often went out on the walls and looked east towards Mordor. He felt like a useless invalid, and longed to be out fighting once more. His dreams plagued him still, and he grew gaunt and pale, eyes acquiring an almost haunted look. It was one of these nights that Boromir heard a familiar voice behind him.  
  
"You do not look well at all, my liege." The soft voice of Ariadne cooed, and her warm hand rested upon his shoulder. He didn't turn to look at her, although he was pleased to see her again. He had much on his mind. "I feared that you had been lost with the many at Osgiliath." Ariadne continued, chewing his bottom lip, uncomfortable with Boromir's reaction to her presence.  
  
"A few scratches. I mourn for those who lost their lives, which were too many." His voice was low, revealing his bitterness. He scowled in the direction of Mordor and finally turned to look at Ariadne. She could not help but reach up and stoke his care worn cheek, concern showing plainly on her face. Boromir clenched his jaw and turned away again. He did not need pity from this woman. Ariadne retreated a few paces, leaning on the wall and looking over the sleeping city.  
  
"Your brother has left already for Osgiliath again." She said softly, watching his gray eyes narrow. He nodded.  
  
"My father gives him no rest." Boromir said bitterly.  
  
"It looks as though you haven't been getting much rest yourself." She watched him a moment before continuing. "What weighs on your mind, Boromir? You had this look before you left." Boromir's shoulders slumped, and he covered his face with his hands.  
  
"It's these dreams." He answered, smoothing back his dark hair angrily. "No sooner does my head hit the pillow than my mind is flooded with images which invoke such…such fear that I start up from my bed in a sweat." Ariadne simply took his hand, urging him to go on. "Yet when I wake I can only recall pieces that make no sense. Different pieces. Pieces that don't seem to fit together to form a clear idea in my mind!" Boromir's voice cracked with emotion, and he turned again to gaze at the darkness rising from Mordor. His eyes closed as he felt Ariadne wrap her arms about his neck, bringing her body close to his. He reacted instinctively by returning the embrace, burying his face in her hair, the scent of jasmine filling his senses. Her fingers traced his spine lightly, soothingly, and he felt himself relaxing slowly. He sank back against the parapet, drawing Ariadne with him. Cradling her upturned face in his hands he pressed his lips to hers, feeling her fingers against his neck, in his hair. He pulled away slowly, feeling intoxicated. Ariadne rested against his chest, stroking his cheek.  
  
"I know the thread of Westernesse runs through your bloodline, but all thought it resided only with your father and brother." She said, voice husky with emotion. "And if indeed these dreams trouble you so you must take them as a warning." Boromir nodded, smoothing her hair absently.  
  
"I was almost sure that my life would be lost at Osgiliath… and yet here I am." He mused, looking up at the dim light of the stars. Ariadne drew away from him and looked into his face.  
  
"Will you return to Osgiliath?"  
  
"Yes. As soon as my father releases me from this prison." He scowled again, towards the large double doors that lead to the houses of healing. "My place is not here." He added gently, noting Ariadne's look of worry. She paced away from him, hands clasped.  
  
"A-are you sure your place is there? You are heir to the stewardship after all. With the situation in Mordor growing worse-"  
  
"I think a woman should not heed the gossip of old men." Boromir interrupted sharply, immediately repenting. "My place is wherever it best serves Gondor, Ariadne. And if I die, it will be in service to Gondor. I am a soldier above all." He sighed. "You wouldn't understand."  
  
"I DO understand that your dreams are an omen, Boromir, and you would NOT serve Gondor as a corpse!" Ariadne's eyes burned with indignation. "I think perhaps it is YOU that does not understand what your gift may be telling you." She turned her back to him, shoulders rising and falling with her breath. Boromir stifled a curse and went over to her, taking her in his arms gently.  
  
"It is not for us to stand here and debate the future which is yet unknown." He pressed his lips to her throat gently, feeling her surrender. He took her by the hand and led her to his chambers, allowing the fire in the hearth to burn low.  
  
The following morning he was called to meet with his father. His father looked tired and old, but smiled warmly when Boromir came to his side and knelt.  
  
"Rise, my son." Denethor urged, taking Boromir's arm. "A solution may yet be found." He paused, sitting back in his throne. "Your brother came to me, before he returned to Osgiliath, and recounted to me a dream. He saw a light in the west, and a voice that called to him saying:  
  
Seek for the sword which was broken:  
  
In Imladris it dwells;  
  
There shall be counsels taken  
  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
  
There shall be shown a token  
  
That Doom is near at hand,  
  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."  
  
Denethor's voice trailed off, seeing the reaction upon Boromir's face.  
  
"I have also dreamt that dream, father, though I did not understand it until now." Boromir stood amazed, gazing off sightlessly.  
  
"Have you any notion of what it may mean, Boromir?" Denethor asked sternly, rousing his son from his daze.  
  
"No, father." My downfall his soul answered within him.  
  
"Imladris is the realm of Elrond of the north. Faramir would go, but I thought him best needed here to lead the troops of Gondor." Boromir frowned.  
  
"But father-"  
  
"I would rather send my first son and heir to seek Elrond, and to find the meaning of this dream." Boromir fell silent. "Your brother knows and has accepted my decision, Boromir."  
  
"Then it would please me greatly to do my father's will." Boromir replied.  
  
  
  
Boromir gasped painfully, eyes rolling back in his head as he fell against the tree, a burning numbness spreading across his chest. Blinking, he watched as Merry and Pippin were grasped under the arms of a swarthy orc and dragged away. He reached after them weakly, gasping their names. He watched as Aragorn slew the orc whose arrows still quivered in his chest. His eyes shut, opening only when he felt a presence at his side. Aragorn was looking down at him, eyes wrought with concern.  
  
"I tried to take the ring from Frodo," His breath caught in his throat. "I am sorry. I have paid."  
  
"Shh… Boromir…" Aragorn reassured him, smoothing back Boromir's tangled hair, eyeing the vicious arrows protruding from his body.  
  
"They have gone: the Halflings. The orcs have taken them." Boromir's face contorted with pain, body tensing. "I think they are not dead. The orcs bound them." His gray eyes closed. "Farewell Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed."  
  
"No!" Said Aragorn, his eyes filling with tears. "You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!" Aragorn said, leaning to kiss Boromir's brow. Boromir's eyes closed for the last time.  
  
If you're frightened of dying, and you're holding on, you'll see devils tearing your life away. If you've made your peace, then the devils are really angels, freeing you from the earth. ° Jacob's Ladder 


End file.
